


Three For Tragedy

by LuckyLadybug



Category: Maverick - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Out of Body Experiences, Revenge, Shooting, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beau is shot protecting Bart and Bart can't handle it. Bret fears that Bart may enact his own justice on the murderer. And Beau can't move on as long as that is the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three For Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine and the story is. This developed because I wanted to explore Bart and Beau’s relationship a bit. I also wanted to explore the family in general and I had to decide what to do about the infamous Brent. Since he was clearly intended to be nothing more than a James Garner clone, from his clothes and hat to his name to his dialogue and the delivery of it, I decided to simply ignore him for the time being. The other three, especially Bret and Beau, have more distinctive personalities, even if some of their dialogue is similar.

Bart really wasn’t sure how it happened or why it happened.

He and Beau had wandered into a town late that night and, upon hearing that a large-scale poker game was on, had gone to the saloon and joined in. Several hours later, they had both scored big and were preparing to get up and leave.

The problem started when one of the other players jumped up, his eyes flashing with rage. “Now just a minute,” he snarled. “I don’t believe you were playing fair, Mr. Maverick!” He pointed at Bart, furious.

“I don’t like being called a cheater, Friend,” Bart frowned. “I only won because my luck was better than yours today.”

“Because you were cheating!” the man howled, grabbing for Bart’s arm and trying to pull back his sleeve to check for a hidden card.

Beau immediately interfered, wrenching the man’s hand away from Bart’s arm. “Now let’s just talk about this reasonably,” he said. “I can vouch for my cousin’s honesty. But if you don’t want to listen, we can always bring the sheriff in on this.”

That seemed to cool the sore loser’s fire. “Nevermind,” he growled.

Relieved, Bart touched the brim of his hat. “I guess deep down you know you don’t have a leg to stand on,” he said. “Goodnight.” He turned to go, starting to walk towards the stairs.

Seconds later, Beau was flinging himself at Bart with a cry of, “Cousin Bart, look out!”

Even as Beau tackled Bart to the floor, Bart crying out in protest, an all-too-familiar explosion rang through the room. One woman screamed. Then there were the sounds of a gun dropping, feet running, and dead silence.

Bart slowly started to rise. “That was quick thinking, Beau,” he said. “I had no idea he was that broken-up about losing.”

But the weight against him remained. Beau was not moving.

A chill went up Bart’s spine. He knew what must have happened, but he didn’t want to believe it. “Beau! Beau, answer me!” He turned, getting his arms around Beau’s lifeless body and lowering him to the floor. Blood swiftly coated his hands.

“Don’t just stand there!” Bart screamed, looking up at the people who were gathered around, just watching the spectacle. “He’s been shot in the back! Get the doctor!”

Finally the crowd came to life. One woman hurried out the door, holding up the edges of her skirt with one hand as she ran.

A man picked up the attempted murder weapon. “I saw everything!” he exclaimed. “He was aiming for you but got your cousin when he tackled you to the floor. Then the coward turned and ran out.”

“Well, why didn’t you stop him?” Bart snapped bitterly. He positioned Beau on his stomach, pressing a handkerchief against the wound. Beau was still alive; Bart could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath as he worked. But he could also feel that it was getting fainter. Beau was dying.

“Come on, Beau, don’t do this,” Bart pleaded through half-gritted teeth. “Why do you always have to be the brave one?! You’re the only one of us who actually volunteered for the Army!”

Of course, he knew with a sinking heart, he would have done the same for Beau or Bret, if he hadn’t been able to reach his gun in time to simply shoot the would-be killer instead. And Bret would have done likewise.

But that didn’t make him feel any better about this. The blood was not stopping or even slowing. It kept soaking through the cloth and running over Bart’s hands and pooling on the floor until he felt like he was going to start screaming.

Finally he looked up again, seeing a stunned saloon girl with short blonde curls standing by and staring in horror. “Will you take a telegram?” he demanded. “I’ll pay you for your trouble later.”

She gave a shaky nod. “Sure. What do you want said, and to who?”

“Bret Maverick. He’s supposed to be in Denver right now. Tell him, ‘Beau shot in Clover City. Very bad. Come at once.’”

She scrawled it out on a napkin. “I’ll get it right over,” she promised.

“Thank you.” Bart looked down at his cousin, so limp, so still. He swallowed hard. Beau had been awake and alert and talking only five minutes earlier. But now he had sacrificed himself for Bart. And Bart honestly had to wonder if he would be able to hold on until Bret came.

Beau was Bart and Bret’s cousin, but the Maverick family was close and the three of them had been brought up more like brothers all around. Somewhere along the way, Bret had drifted farther apart from Beau; Bart had been the one to meet him when he had returned from five years in England and Bart had been the one who had traveled with him several times. As far as he knew, however, there wasn’t an actual rift between Bret and Beau. They had just grown apart, as friends and even family sometimes did, while Bart had stayed close to them both.

Bret would be sick about what had happened.

****

Bret was indeed in Denver. And he happened to be in the middle of collecting a very large pot when the telegram arrived.

“Well, Gentlemen,” he drawled, “I’m up for another round. Who’s with me?”

“I’m out,” one man declared, throwing his cards to the table.

“Oh, quittin’ while you’re ahead, eh?” Bret said.

“I’m in,” a second man said.

“You might regret it later, Friend,” Bret smiled easily.

“Mr. Maverick?”

Bret looked up with a start at the hotel desk clerk’s worried voice. He opened his mouth to make a quip, but stopped when he saw the man’s grim expression. “What is it?” he frowned.

The desk clerk held out a piece of paper. “This just came for you, Sir. It’s urgent.”

Bret grabbed it, turning pale as he read through the grim message. “Sorry, Gentlemen,” he said, sweeping his earnings to him and getting up from the table. “I’ll have to bow out after all.”

“What is it, Maverick?” one of the men asked. “Running scared suddenly?”

“Yes, but not for me,” Bret replied. “Family trouble. When’s the next train to Clover City?”

“The train only goes as far as Shiloh Pass,” the desk clerk answered. “You’ll have to catch the stage to go on from there. There should be a train leaving in about an hour.”

“Good,” Bret declared, heading to the counter to cash his chips.

His mind was racing. Beau, shot! It really must be serious, for Bart to wire him so worriedly. Usually those two took care of their problems without summoning Bret. Bart wouldn’t have even needed to specify “Very bad” to get Bret to come at the news of a shooting. For him to emphasize it like that . . . things must be about as bad as they could possibly get.

“Oh, what have you two gotten into now?” Bret muttered moments later, rushing upstairs to pack.

What chilled him the most was the frightening thought that kept creeping into his mind no matter how many times he pushed it back.

Would Beau even still be alive when he got there?

“Please let that Maverick luck come through for us again,” he half-prayed. It had saved them many times in the past. It had to save Beau now.

****

Bret managed to make it to Clover City while Beau was still alive. The ride on the train and the stage had been agonizing, wondering what had happened and how bad was “very bad.” When he arrived at the hotel and saw a disheveled Bart who probably hadn’t slept since it had happened, he knew.

“Bart!” he exclaimed, hurrying to his brother’s side and reaching to steady him. “What in the world happened?! How bad is Beau hurt?!”

“Oh Bret. . . .” Bart gripped his older brother’s arms. They did not tend to open up and reveal their innermost feelings, but right now Bart was at his wit’s end. He couldn’t take much more of worrying sick, trying to be strong, and failing miserably. He needed Bret’s strength.

“Somebody was mad thinking I’d cheated,” he explained, his voice hoarse. “I thought Beau had calmed him down and I was leaving. But suddenly Beau was warning me and tackling me to the floor, and then there was a shot and Beau didn’t move.” He ran a hand over his face, seeing Bret’s shocked look. “He’s lost so much blood. The doctor doesn’t expect him to live past today. Of course, he didn’t expect him to hang on past the first night, either, but . . .”

Bret held tighter to Bart’s upper arms. “Beau’s a Maverick,” he said, trying to be soothing and comforting. And to reassure himself as well as Bart. “Come on, he’ll pull through.”

Bart wanted to be convinced. He had tried to tell himself the same things. But as he looked back into the room, disconsolate as he gazed at Beau’s lifeless body in the second bed, he found it very difficult to believe. They had all been hurt at one time or another, but never as seriously as this.

“He’s never even woke up,” he told Bret sadly. “The last thing he said was ‘Cousin Bart, look out!’ And then . . .” He pulled away from Bret and trudged back into the room. “I’ll hear that ringing in my ears until I die, if he doesn’t make it.”

Bret was chilled, both by the sight of Beau lying so still and by Bart’s despondency. “You can’t just think the worst,” he said. “You know, I bet it’s being cooped up in this room that’s making you go just a little bit stir-crazy. How about you get out for some fresh air and I’ll sit with him for a while?”

Bart hesitated. It did sound appealing to leave the room for even a short while. He wanted to try to go after the man who had done this, but the sheriff and his deputies were looking and Bart hadn’t been able to bring himself to think of leaving Beau.

“Maybe I’ll do that,” he said at last. “But you’ll send someone to find me if there’s any change, good or bad, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Bret replied, steering Bart to the door. “And if I have any change to report, I’m sure it’ll be good.”

Bart wanted to believe that. For a while, as he stepped out of the stuffy hotel and into the cool, late afternoon air, he tried to believe it. Bret was right, after all; it wasn’t easy to kill a Maverick. How many certain deaths had they weaseled out of through the years? He had long ago lost count. People had been trying to kill them even before they had started traveling the country. And they had been falsely accused of murder so many times it would probably make any lawyer dizzy to read about all of the cases.

But when he heard a sharp, pained cry of “Bart!” and he spun around to see Bret standing there, shaken, nothing else had to be said. He knew.

“He’s dead, Bart,” Bret said sorrowfully. “He just up and died on me ten minutes ago. The doctor’s in with him now, but . . .”

Bart stared at Bret dumbly for a moment. “No,” he rasped. “Oh God, no.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Why did something like this have to happen? Why?!”

Bret drew an arm around Bart’s shoulders, leading him back towards the hotel. “We always knew we were taking chances with this lifestyle,” he said quietly. “Pappy acted like it wouldn’t be dangerous, but I’m not sure we could’ve picked a more dangerous path if we’d tried.”

“Beau shouldn’t have even been traveling,” Bart berated. “He wasn’t framed for murder in Texas like we were.”

“He was trying to help us find the man who could clear us,” Bret replied. “And I think traveling just got in his blood, especially after he went to England. More than either of us, he traveled for the sheer joy of it. But Bart . . .” He looked at his brother in all seriousness. “It wasn’t Beau that bullet was aimed for. If he hadn’t been traveling, you’d be dead right now.”

“I know that!” Bart snapped. “It’s going to haunt me every day of my life.” He started up the back stairs of the hotel, not wanting to pass through the lobby and have to speak with the desk clerk and other patrons.

Bret trailed after him. “Beau didn’t know he was going to get it, and it was never in his mind to sacrifice himself for anybody. But if he was going to do it, he would have wanted it to be this way,” he said. “He would have wanted to make sure you’d be alright.”

“You’re so calm about it!” Bart cried as he reached the second-story landing. “I know you and Beau were growing apart, but don’t you care about him?! He’s our cousin!”

“Bart, shh!” Bret gestured wildly at several people who were peering out their windows at them. A bit of hurt flickered in his eyes. “What are you talking about? Of course I care about him! I’m sick about this!” He opened the door to Bart’s room and let him step inside before following. “But what good will it do either of us if both of us fall apart at the same time?!”

“Oh, so this is for my benefit then,” Bart snapped.

“If you want to put it like that, yes!”

Bart barely heard. He had caught sight of the doctor straightening up from examining Beau’s body. Suddenly everything was harsh and cold and real. Part of him had been trying to deny it, to hope that there had been a mistake. But Beau was dead; he could see it in the doctor’s face, the same as he had seen it in Bret’s.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said quietly. “Your brother did what he could, and so did I, but there was just no chance.”

Bart sank onto the edge of the bed. “Thank you, Doctor,” he replied, sounding and looking as far away as he felt.

He barely noticed the doctor’s departure. Instead he stared down at Beau, seeing the bandaging on his back where he had been fatally wounded. The blood had soaked through again.

Bart was clenching the quilt in the next minute. “We have to find the man who did this,” he said darkly. “I won’t rest until we have him dead or in custody.”

Bret stiffened. “Bart, you’re in no condition to go after him!”

“Well, I can’t just stay around here twiddling my thumbs and arranging for Beau to be buried in this place!” Bart cried. “We’ll have to get him home. Or as close to it as we can. That’s what Uncle Ben would want.”

“We can’t just go traipsing back into Texas for any reason!” Bret exclaimed. “Not until we’ve cleared ourselves of the false murder charges! Uncle Ben would understand if we bury Beau here. He wouldn’t understand if you go running off half-cocked and get yourself killed too!”

Bart slammed his fist into the nightstand. He half-expected Beau to jerk in shock from the sudden noise, but of course there was no reaction.

Bart slumped forward, a hand over his eyes. Bret was right, of course. “So what should we do?” he mumbled.

“We’ll get the undertaker to take him,” Bret said. “Then we’ll find out if the sheriff’s had any luck catching the killer.”

“And if he hasn’t?” Bart returned.

“Then . . .” Bret shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Bart looked up. “You want to go after him, just like I do,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice.”

“Of course I want to go after him!” Bret threw his hands in the air. Turning away, he started to pace. “A Maverick doesn’t lose one of his own without fighting back. I just don’t want to be responsible for getting you into a mess like that when you’re not calm enough to face it!”

Bart got off the bed. “And if it comes right down to it, are you going to be any calmer?!” he retorted. “He was our cousin!”

“But he was saving you!” Bret shot back. “And you were closer to him than I was!”

They stood and glared at each other for a long moment. Then Bart turned away, rubbing his eyes. “Oh . . . what’s happening to us?” he groaned. “Were we this bad when Momma died?”

“No.” Bret got quiet again. “We banded together. But the circumstances were a lot different then.”

Bart nodded, morose. “And Beau was there too.” Again he looked at the lifeless body. “I’d better get the undertaker.”

“Are you sure? I could go,” Bret offered.

“No, I’ll do it,” Bart said firmly. “I don’t think I can stay another minute in here.” He walked to the door before glancing back sadly. “You’re right—I was closer to him than you were.”

****

Unseen by both of them, a translucent figure stood in the room near the bed. With a sad and tired sigh he turned, looking from Bret to Bart. “Here now. I’ve not even been gone twenty minutes and the two of you are fighting. That isn’t like either of you. I do hope it won’t continue.”

He groaned, rubbing at his forehead as he caught sight of the body and quickly looked away again. “This isn’t really what I thought death would be like. I don’t know what I’m doing lingering here at all.”

He started to pace, walking up and down the length of the room and looking to Bret, who was standing by the window and leaning on the wall with one hand. “Well, Cousin Bret. I haven’t seen you in quite some time. I’m sorry our meeting has to be when I’m not available for conversation.”

He paused and shuddered. He was appearing to take this entirely too calmly. Actually, he wasn’t calm at all. If he still had a heart, it would be racing. It was horrifying and surreal and sickening, to look at that form in the bed and know that it was his.

“I’m dead,” he whispered. “This time I truly am dead.” He hadn’t cheated the Grim Reaper this time, as he had managed to do so many times in the past.

Again he took up the pace, this time casting his eyes toward the ceiling. “Would You be so kind as to tell me what I’m still doing down here? Shouldn’t I have gone on to Paradise? . . . Or to a burning pit, if instead that is my destiny? Oh, not that I’m in any hurry for the latter, I assure You.”

He really hoped that would not be his fate. None of them had done anything so terrible that it would warrant that condemnation, at least not to his way of thinking. Not unless honest gambling was a sin so serious. He rather hoped that all the times they had become involved trying to help innocent people would balance it out.

He glanced back to Bret as the living man spoke, gazing off at the body as he did. “Why’d you have to go and take the bullet yourself?” he muttered sadly. “Couldn’t you have fixed it so you both would’ve missed it?”

“I would have liked that myself,” Beau retorted. “These last hours haven’t been a picnic for me, either! I unfortunately wasn’t unaware of the pain. I suffered with it most of that time, even while I was unconscious.”

Bret pushed himself away from the wall, a bit of angry hurt flashing in his eyes that was swiftly replaced by trepidation. He advanced on the bed, staring down at the body. “You should just be asleep, you know?” He sank down on the edge, looking at the arm that had slipped out from under the quilt and was hanging over the side of the mattress. “You look like you’re asleep.”

“I do, don’t I?” Beau mused. “But I suppose there isn’t any chance the doctor made a mistake. If he had, why would I be over here instead of . . . down there. . . .” He looked away, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall.

“Oh Beau. . . .” Bret leaned back, sighing as he gazed at the ceiling. “Bart asked me once why you and I drifted apart. You know, I didn’t really have an answer for him? It’s nothing you or I did on purpose. It was just one of those things.” He paused. “And that sounds really pathetic now, all things considered.”

“It was just as much my fault as yours,” Beau said. “I could have communicated more than I did. I suppose it started when you weren’t available a time or so, but I was able to contact Bart, so I got in the habit of only contacting him. Somehow we seemed able to keep better track of each other than you and I.”

He sighed, tiredly. “I wish I’d been there to help you both when you returned to Texas after the war. Maybe that whole ‘being framed for murder’ business wouldn’t have ended up the way it did if there had been a third person to help look for the man who got away. You and Bart might have the ranch you wanted and I’d probably still be alive.

“Not that I regret sacrificing myself for Bart, you understand. But seeing the pain it’s causing you both, and knowing that I didn’t really want to die, I wish there had been another way.

“I knew that man was trouble early on in the game. So did Bart, of course. Neither of us had any idea how far he would go, but he certainly isn’t the first to have tried something like that on us.” Beau started to pace again. “If we had left sooner, maybe . . .” But he trailed off. It was useless to rehash things that could not be altered.

Both he and Bret jumped a mile when the floor creaked. Beau frowned, staring down at the carpet under which the vocal floorboards were housed. A ghost could creak the floor? Well, he supposed that shouldn’t be too much of a surprise, if all the reports of the activity in haunted houses were true. But he still hadn’t expected it and he found it rather unsettling.

So did Bret. He shifted on the bed, casting repeated, suspicious looks at the floor. But if he had any idea what had caused it, he didn’t say.

For several minutes they both stayed there in silence, discouraged and despondent. They only started and looked up again when the door opened and Bart trudged in with the coroner.

“That took a while,” Bret said, getting off the bed. “Were you in the middle of tending to another customer or something?” He looked the wiry older man up and down.

The undertaker just grinned in a vaguely eerie way. “No. Business has been slow lately. I must say, I was grateful for the chance to have a little work again.”

Bret’s lip curled. “I just bet you are. You take care of him well, you hear? He’s our cousin. We want only the best.”

“Of course. And you’ll get it,” the undertaker assured.

“I would hope so,” Beau interjected. “I feel I deserve something pleasant for my eternal rest. Although since I’m still here, I wonder how restful eternity is going to be.”

Bart sighed. “I’m sorry it took so long, Bret. I stopped off to see the sheriff first. He hasn’t had any luck. I thought maybe if we ask around town we’d find out something.”

Bret nodded. “Maybe. Especially if we offer a little incentive for their information.” He dug in his pocket.

Bart just watched him, finally reaching for his own wallet to check his funds as well. Normally there would be jokes about who would put up the money, but today neither of them was in the mood. They would both offer it, gladly, if it would lead to Beau’s killer.

“Come on,” Beau said, looking from one to the other. “No quibble over who lets go of some of his carefully earned roll?” Not that he really wanted them to joke right now either, but it hurt worse to see them so heartbroken.

“Bart . . .” Bret suddenly looked his brother right in the eyes. “What are you going to do if we find the man who killed Beau?”

Bart stiffened. “I . . .” His eyes darkened in a way that neither Bret nor Beau had ever seen from him before.

“Oh no,” Beau exclaimed, leaning forward. “Dear God, no.”

Bret gripped Bart’s shoulder. “There’ll be none of that,” he said harshly. “Do you get me, Bart Maverick? Sure, killing him would feel good, maybe, for a minute. But then it’d be done and there’d be no going back. And you’d be hung as a murderer if you were ever caught!”

“I know,” Bart said hurriedly. Too hurriedly. “Nevermind. Come on, let’s just go. I can’t stand to see . . .” He trailed off, watching as the undertaker lifted Beau’s body, limp as a ragdoll. Bart turned away, deeply pained and grief-stricken.

“Bart . . .” Bret was still looking at him. “We can’t go just yet. We have to help him.”

Bart’s shoulders slumped. He had known that, really, but he had hoped against hope not to have to get that close. To actually have to touch and lift Beau’s body would drive home all the more poignantly that he was gone.

Yet on the other hand, in future years he would probably regret not having helped, if he didn’t do it.

“You’re right, Brother Bret,” he said at last, sadly. “Let’s get to it.” With that he went over to the scene, supporting Beau’s left side.

Bret came over as well, gathering Beau’s legs. A chill ran down his spine as they moved out of the room and into the hall.

They made a somber and sad procession through the upstairs hall and down the stairs into the lobby. The desk clerk and several guests looked up with a collective start.

“Oh, Mr. Maverick, I’m so sorry,” the desk clerk exclaimed in all sincerity.

Bart nodded to him vaguely, feeling like he was caught in a nightmare that wasn’t, couldn’t be real. He had to wake up and find that Beau was alive and sprightly and joking. He had to.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. This was all that was left of their cousin on the mortal plane.

And right now, Bart felt that if he couldn’t find the man who had done this and serve justice on him, he would go out of his mind.

Hurrying along behind them, Beau’s ghost struggled to keep up. “For Heaven’s sake, Bart, don’t do it!” he cried. “No—for your own sake! And Cousin Bret’s and Uncle Beau’s and Father’s too! Can’t you hear me?! Oh please, just once, hear me!”

But Bart was unmoved. He could not hear the desperate spirit. Neither could anyone else.

****

Several hours, several people, and several drinks later, Bret and Bart had at last found someone in town who knew the shooter and was willing to give them what little information he could on the man’s current whereabouts. It was just possible, he said, that the man had gone into the woods near the town and was hiding out in an abandoned cabin up there that was hard to find unless you knew it was there. With the sheriff and deputies scouring the area, he might prefer to take his chances in there with a rifle rather than run across the open desert.

“Well, that’s it then,” Bret said as they left the saloon. “I’ll let the sheriff know and we can go up there with a posse.”

Bart climbed on his horse, his eyes still dark and filled with pain. “And let someone else bring him in? It was our cousin he killed. I want to be the one to get him and bring him in to the police. There’s a reward out on his capture right now. Every bounty hunter in the area is gunning for a piece of him. And the only reward I want is to get him.”

“At what cost?” Bret exclaimed. “I want to get him too, Bart. If it comes down to it and he’s shooting at us, we’d have to kill him. But if you just go there and gun him down like he did to Beau . . . !”

“There’s a difference,” Bart replied. “Beau was a human being. The man who gunned him down is an animal, a monster. And it’s not against the law to shoot down wild animals.” With that he took off towards the town limits.

Bret swore in his mind. It was already dark—certainly not a good time to be riding out in search of a crazed and desperate gunman. But he could scarcely let Bart go after him alone. Going to tell the sheriff now would take too much time and every second counted. So he got on his horse as well and rode after his grieving brother.

Uncomfortable and worried, Beau’s ghost had climbed onto Bart’s horse and was riding behind him. But even though Beau was holding onto him—mostly out of reflex and habit, since he knew a mortal couldn’t stop a ghost from falling off—Bart showed no indication of feeling the cold touch of an apparition.

“Cousin Bart, this isn’t like you at all,” Beau bemoaned. “You’re not a murderer. And look at this! You’re dragging Cousin Bret into your vengeance as well! What if he ends up shot?!”

Bart rode furiously, unheeding the otherworldly pleas. Overcome by grief and pain, the only thing that mattered was seeing that the killer paid for his barbarism.

He had sat up with Beau through the long hours after the shooting, talking to him and tending to his wound. They had often teased and joked with each other, as Bart and Bret did as well, and to keep himself sane Bart had spoken lightly for some time, telling Beau of the various schemes he had planned and the money he intended to collect and how Beau would soon be regretting being laid up and unable to participate. But as the hours had worn on and Beau had showed no signs of getting better, only worse, Bart had finally cracked, abandoning the obnoxious jokes and begging for Beau to hold on.

Did he feel bitter in some way, too, that he had not been there at the very last? He had taken Bret’s advice and gone out for some air and to clear his mind, and Beau had quietly slipped away at that point. Not that it really would have mattered if Bart had also been there; Beau had never regained consciousness.

“Bart! Slow down!”

At last, heeding Bret’s concern, Bart slowed enough to allow him to come alongside. “. . . I’m sorry I got you out here,” he said quietly. “Beau was just about gone when you made it in.”

“Don’t be sorry for that,” Bret frowned. “Beau was important to me, too. I wanted to be here for him . . . and for you.”

Bart nodded, sadly. “. . . Remember the fun we used to have as kids? Roaming around the Texas countryside, pretending to look for pirate treasure, exploring old, abandoned houses and shacks?”

“And getting into a world of trouble,” Bret chuckled. “Pappy and Uncle Ben were always throwing up their hands in exasperation and exclaiming they didn’t know what to do with any of us. But secretly you knew they loved it.”

“They did a lot of the same things when they were kids,” Bart remarked. “Not that they’d remind us of that when they were scolding us.”

Bret nodded. “Beau was always the most adventurous of the three of us,” he mused. “He kept talking about how he wanted to travel and see the world. You and me, we would’ve settled down long ago if there hadn’t been that trouble in Texas. But Beau always was a wild soul at heart. I’m not sure settling down could have ever been in his blood.”

“Pappy nearly went through the ceiling when Beau actually volunteered for the Army instead of being drafted,” Bart remembered. “And when he got a medal, as unintentional as it may have been . . .” He shuddered and closed his eyes.

“I have never heard such caterwauling from a human being either before or since,” Bret declared. “And then shipping him off to England after the war to get him ‘straightened out’. . . . Why did Uncle Ben allow that, anyway? He’s not as dead-set on not doing things that could get you killed as Pappy is.”

“You know how Uncle Ben usually just lets Pappy run the family the way he sees fit,” Bart replied. “In that case, he figured England would be a new adventure. And Beau wasn’t too opposed to it, either.”

“Pappy sure got more than he bargained for when Beau came back half-English himself,” Bret chuckled. “He’s never stopped complaining about ending up with a nephew that talks prim and proper and likes afternoon tea.”

Bart laughed too. “He said he should probably have his head examined for ever making him go to England.”

But then it occurred to them that Bret had used the present tense to describe Beau and that was no longer correct. They fell silent, a new sadness washing over them.

“I hate to have to tell him about this,” Bret said at last. “To say nothing of telling Uncle Ben.”

“I’ll tell Uncle Ben,” Bart said. “Beau was saving me; I should be the one to do it.”

Beau gave a sad sigh. “If I could just get someone to see or hear me, I’d tell Father,” he said. “He should really hear it from me and not either of you.”

By now they had gone deep into the woods. Each brother held a lantern, scouting the trees and brush on all sides as they searched for the mysterious cabin.

“We really should’ve waited till morning,” Bret frowned. “We’re not likely to find the cabin in here, even if it does exist.”

“I didn’t think I could stand to go back to that hotel room again,” Bart answered. “Not while knowing Beau’s killer is out here free.” He clutched the lantern’s handle and the reins tightly, his knuckles going white.

It was Beau who saw it first. “Look out!” he screamed, even though he knew it was fruitless.

Only this time, it wasn’t.

Bart went sheet-white. “Beau?!” he cried in disbelief. He fell to the ground as his horse reared in fright. At the same moment, a bullet whizzed past where he had just been sitting.

Bret’s horse was going wild too. He just barely managed to steer it away from another bullet. He jumped to the ground, pulling out his gun at the same time. “It looks like the killer has just found us,” he hissed. “And he’s hoping to add the other Maverick boys to his trophy collection!”

Bart was still pale, his hand shaking as he checked the ammunition in his gun. “I heard Beau,” he rasped. “Didn’t you hear him? He was trying to protect us both.”

“I heard,” Bret said crisply. “It doesn’t really surprise me. Of course he’d still try to look out for us. Right now we’ve got to concentrate on making sure we didn’t hear his warning a little too late!” As another bullet rang out, Bret rose and returned fire.

Recovering from the shock, Bart fired as well, his eyes now flaming. “You killed our cousin!” he screamed into the darkness. “Now you’re hiding like a frightened animal. Why don’t you come out and take what’s coming to you?!”

The familiar voice of the bad-tempered gambler swore at him. “Why should I come out and let you kill me?!”

“We want to take you back to town with us,” Bret called back, even though he was sure that still wasn’t what was on Bart’s mind.

“And they’ll kill me, after a trial,” the murderer spat. “My life’s already forfeit, so I’m going to get rid of both of you and stay up here for as long as I can.”

“There’ll be a posse in the morning,” Bret insisted. “You won’t be able to stay here long.”

Now there was silence. The brothers froze, listening. Their enemy was moving, hoping to circle around and come at them from behind. Signaling for Bart to hold still, Bret slowly got up and turned around, waiting. As soon as he saw the approaching shape, he lunged, grabbing for the shotgun and wrenching it upward. It went off, harmlessly firing into the air.

The murderer yelled and swore in surprise, fighting with Bret over control of the weapon. At last Bret got it away and held it on him, using it to force him back. “Alright, now you just get down and stay down!” he ordered.

At first the murderer seemed to obey. But suddenly he pulled Bret’s legs from under him, sending him to the ground. Again they struggled, the shotgun between them.

Bart wasn’t about to let that go on any longer. “Alright, stop!” he yelled, rushing forward with his gun bared. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The murderer instantly froze. Again Bret tore the shotgun away from him, slowly backing up as he kept it pointed at the heaving chest. “Okay, Bart, that’s good,” he said. “We’ve got him.”

Bart advanced, the gun now steady in his hand. “I’ve got him,” he said. “And I’m not letting him try any more to get away.”

The murderer knelt in the dirt, his eyes wide and filled with fear. “You’re just going to shoot me down like a dog?!” he cried.

Bret’s stomach clenched. “Bart, no! I want to see him pay too, but good and legal. He’ll hang for what he did to Beau.”

“But I won’t get to pull out the floor from underneath him,” Bart said darkly. “This way, I deliver the payback. Yes, I’m going to shoot him down like a dog. Just like he was going to do to me and like he did to Beau.”

“NO!” Knowing it was hopeless, but desperate for a miracle, Beau ran out, getting between Bart and the killer.

Bart stumbled back, all color drained from his face. “Beau . . .”

Bret stared, his eyes widening. “Beau, you . . . I can see you!”

The murderer couldn’t take any more. He tipped over on his side, fainting dead away at the sight of the transparent figure of the man he had murdered.

Beau was so intent on getting through to Bart that he barely processed that they actually were seeing him now. “I didn’t save you for this!” he screamed at Bart. “You’ll be the one hanging! That isn’t what I wanted. I wanted you to live, to find some happiness in life! Instead you’re condemning yourself to a short life that will end with a rope! You’ve escaped hanging in the past. Why would you walk right into the noose now?!”

Trembling, Bart lowered the gun. “Beau, I . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I wanted him to pay.”

Bret hurried forward, wrenching the murderer’s arms behind his back and tying his wrists while he was still in a swoon. There was no response, which was just as well. Bret could handle him much better this way.

While Bret worked, he couldn’t help looking up at Beau. He was also reeling from this encounter, even though he was trying to stay outwardly calm. Beau was very likely the only one who could have gotten through to Bart in his current state. Now he had reached out from beyond the grave to do it.

Beau was smiling ruefully, kindly. “I know you wanted that. And I’m sorry I couldn’t keep us both from catching that bullet.” He glanced at Bret and then back to Bart. “I tried. Honest, I did. His gun was faster than my tackle.”

“And now . . .” Bart slipped the gun into its holster. “It’s all over, isn’t it? You can’t stay.”

“I’m afraid not. Something’s pulling on me now. I suppose this was why I’ve stayed up to this point.” Beau gave a weak smile. “I still had to save you from being killed.”

Bret swallowed hard. “Beau . . . thank you. It’s bad enough losing you. I’d hate to lose Bart too.”

Bart nodded, sadly. “I’d hate for you to have died in vain. Or for Bret to die.” Suddenly he looked sick. “This man could’ve easily gunned Bret down when we tracked him here.”

“I tried to tell you that,” Beau admitted. “I’ve been here all along, but you couldn’t see or hear me until he fired at you.” He winced at the feel of a stronger tug. “Alright, I’ll come. Just give me another moment!” He looked off at nothing, waving a hand in a dismissive manner.

Bret drew a shaking breath. “Well then. I guess this has to be Goodbye.”

Bart shook his head. “This doesn’t usually happen, but I’m . . . I think a frog just hopped down my throat. I can’t think of a thing to say.” He gazed sorrowfully at his cousin, who looked awkward himself.

“Maybe they’ll let me come back,” Beau suggested. “To sort of . . . watch over you both. Heaven knows you both get into enough trouble to warrant some special protection.”

“You’re one to talk,” Bret said. “You’ve been accused of murder more times in a year than either of us got in three.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think that will be a problem now. I’ve never heard of anyone accusing a ghost of murder.”

Bart managed a weak, hollow chuckle. “. . . Traveling won’t be the same without you out there to run into,” he said.

“You never know,” Beau said, tipping his hat back. “I may still be out there, sometimes.”

“Say Hello to Momma, won’t you?” Bret said, his voice growing thick.

“I will if I can.” And suddenly he was gone.

Bart took a step forward, staring at the now-empty space. “Beau?” he called quaveringly. He didn’t really expect an answer.

Bret laid a heavy hand on Bart’s shoulder. “He’s not here now,” he said quietly. “But I think Heaven just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Bart looked up at him. “Yeah,” he said with a wan smile. “With Beau around, it’d have to.”

****

It was late when the brothers finally re-entered the town with their prisoner. They really hadn’t expected to find anyone still awake and had been bracing themselves for the necessity of waking up the sheriff to take custody of Beau’s murderer.

Instead, to their shock, a man in a fancy black suit and matching top hat was running into the street with a horrified howl.

“The body!” he wailed. “The body’s moving! And talking!”

Bret and Bart exchanged befuddled glances. “Isn’t that the mortician?” Bret said.

“I do believe it is!” Bart exclaimed. “He must be drunk.”

They guided their horses over to the hysterical character. “Excuse us,” Bret called. “Would you mind telling us exactly what you’re talking about?”

The undertaker looked up with a start as he gripped the edges of his top hat, his eyes wide and wild. “You!” he cried, hefting a finger at Bret and then at Bart. “You boys brought that body to me!”

Bart slid off his horse, not sure what was going on. The entire day had felt like a surreal nightmare. Apparently it wasn’t over yet. “Haven’t you been taking care of our cousin’s body?” he frowned.

The mortician gave a frantic nod. “I was going to,” he said. “But then there was a big shootout in town and the sheriff insisted I work on those bodies first because one of them had to be shipped back to his family on the evening stage and the other had a price on his head and had to be delivered to Denver on the late train. So I was just going to start on your cousin now. Only when I went over to him, he told me to please not put any embalming fluid in his veins!”

“. . . He told you,” Bret said carefully, climbing down from his horse as well.

“He did!” the older man huffed. “And then he asked for his clothes and said he was cold!”

Bart ran for the door to the funeral home in utter disbelief, but with a touch of hope mixed in. “Well, did you get his clothes for him?!” he demanded.

“Of course not!” the undertaker said indignantly. “I came right out here and started screaming. That’s the most logical thing to do when one of your corpses starts talking to you!”

“Why, you’re absolutely right,” Bret said, patting the man’s coat before hurrying past him to join Bart. “Maybe you should get into a different line of work. You never know when you might be witness to a modern-day miracle! And if you just can’t handle that, this isn’t the right career path for you.”

“M-M-Miracle?!” The undertaker spun around, watching Bart fling the doors open with a cry of, “Beau?! Are you here?!”

“Yes,” a British voice called back after a moment. “Rather unpresentable, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re alive!” Bart exclaimed, still scarcely daring to believe. He ran inside, Bret right on his heels.

The undertaker slumped back, fumbling with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. “Alive?” He mopped his brow, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Deciding he needed some support, he gathered the reins of Bret’s horse and leaned against the animal.

Inside the mortuary, Bart soon found the correct room and rushed in. Beau was on a slab in the center, having painstakingly turned onto his side while gripping the sheet that was covering him. He looked up, smiling at the arriving Bart. “Hello, Cousin Bart.”

For a moment Bart could only stop and stare. It wasn’t a crazy man’s delusion; it was real. Beau truly was alive and breathing and looking right at him. “How?” he gasped.

“Heaven didn’t want me yet,” Beau replied. “I did see Aunt Joyce. She said Heaven just wasn’t ready for the likes of us Maverick boys. I wasn’t supposed to be dead yet, either.”

Bart laughed out loud. “Oh, that’s great! That’s really great!” He ran over, embracing Beau while being careful of the wound. Beau, although stunned by the sudden show of affection, adapted to it and hugged back. He didn’t tend to like being touched, but he would make an exception in this case. He was happy too.

Bret ran in now as well. “Beau, you never can do anything the easy way!” he exclaimed. “You could’ve just not died in the first place.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t have preferred that!” Beau retorted.

Bret laughed and came to join the hug. “So you’re really home,” he said in awe.

“Welcome back,” Bart said in all sincerity.

“Well, thank you,” Beau said. “And I’m happy to be back and all, but would one or both of you please help me locate my clothes?!”

“Oh, of course,” Bart said, pulling back to look around the room.

Within a few minutes he and Bret had Beau dressed and ready to leave. Still weak and in pain from the wound, Beau allowed them to help him limp out of the building.

The mortician, still by Bret’s horse, came to attention as the family approached the door. But when he saw them supporting a very live Beau, it was too much to take. He collapsed to the ground in a dead faint.

“What’s wrong with him?” Beau asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Bret drawled. “He’s just never seen a miracle before.”

“That must be a very disconsolate way to live,” Beau remarked.

“I’d think so,” Bret said.

“Then we are all in agreement, Brother Bret and Cousin Beau,” Bart said. “It would be very disconsolate indeed.”

****

Bart started awake late that night, back in the hotel room. Groaning to himself, he slumped into the bed as he looked around the space that was lit only by the moon outside.

Bret was in the next room; the connecting door was closed. Beau was back in the second bed in this room, lying on his stomach as before so as not to aggravate the wound.

Bart shuddered, rising up a bit. Beau was definitely breathing; it wasn’t just an incredible dream that had no basis in reality. But it still seemed too fantastic to actually be true. Bart sat up and then stood, quietly crossing the space between the beds. “Beau?”

Beau started and turned, blinking sleepy, bleary eyes at Bart. “What is it?” he mumbled. “It can’t be time to get up yet.”

“No, it’s not,” Bart admitted. “I’m sorry to wake you up, Beau, but I had to know something.”

“What’s that?” Beau’s voice was slurred. He was still half-asleep.

Bart sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. There was really no easy way to ask this. “What’s it like, to be dead?”

Beau sank into the pillow. “Miserable,” he said flatly. “And disturbing. There’s rarely any contact with the living, unless, I suppose, it’s an emergency. Most of the time, all you can do is stand there and watch and listen and try to communicate in vain. It’s not an experience I recommend trying.”

“It’s not one I want to try,” Bart said emphatically. “But thanks . . . for trying so hard to get through to me.”

Beau gave a tired shrug. “I couldn’t let you go off and do something idiotic like that. Especially when I’d already died trying to keep you safe.”

Bart smirked a bit. In general they were not often openly affectionate with each other, but that certainly did not mean they did not care a great deal.

“Okay,” he said, pulling the quilt up around Beau’s shoulders. “Goodnight, Beau.”

“Goodnight.” Beau was asleep again almost instantly.

It was a relief that Beau had come through this harrowing experience with apparently no lasting aftereffects. On Bart’s part, he wasn’t sure he could get over it that easily. But having Beau back alive and well would certainly help.

Faintly smiling to himself, Bart got back in the other bed and tried to go back to sleep.

It came on him sooner than he had thought.


End file.
